A 221B Christmas
by Bugsyboo1313
Summary: Sherlock and John spend Christmas together at 221B Baker Street. Just a cute Johnlock story. First FanFiction writing I did. Written from John's POV. Please leave reviews! Thanks! :-)
1. Chapter 1

FanFiction

Based off: BBC Sherlock

Written from John's POV

Title: A 221B Christmas

"_My love, you know__you are my best friend__.__You know that I'd do anything for you.__And my love, let nothing come between us.__My love for you is strong and true."_

_-Sarah McLachlan _

**Chapter 1**

I can't feel my fingers. They have turned a ghostly white color, and I keep blowing on them every now and then so they don't completely freeze. Every time I breathe out, a cloud of air protrudes from my mouth into the air in front of me, like I'm a dragon or something. My feet slip slightly under me as I walk my way towards 221B Baker Street.

The streets are almost entirely deserted, except for me and a couple strangers. I find this unusual since it is now two weeks before Christmas. I've been spending almost every second of free time I have out trying to find the perfect present for Sherlock this year. I don't know what I consider "free time," because it seems every morning I'm up and out the door solving yet another case with my best friend. I'm terrible with gifts and shopping, and I tried getting suggestions from Lestrade and Molly, but they were no help either.

So, after the third shopping trip, I am yet again returning home with nothing from a pointless errand. The streets are lit up for the holidays and a thin layer of snow covers the road. The snow is falling from the sky, and soon I have fluffy, white flakes all over myself. I continue walking down the sidewalk; past the stores filled with Christmas decorations, and keeping my head down to avoid snowflakes from entering my eyes. I pick up the pace with my legs, because if I don't get home soon, my fingers will freeze and I won't be able to bend them to open the door.

My hot breath is felt on my fingers once again, and I decide to keep blowing until I simply cannot anymore. I put my hands back in my pockets and hunch my shoulders closer to me so I can stay slightly warmer. I reached into my jeans pocket and pulled out my phone. I sent Sherlock a text. _Be home in a few. Sorry if I took longer than I said I would. _As I turn the corner onto Baker Street, my right foot slips under me on ice and I fall to the ground. My right knee buckles and gives under me, and my left arm bends in an awkward position under my ribs. A burning feeling passes in my entire left arm, and every time I moved it, I felt that same sharp pain. The cold from the ice made my arm feel like it was on fire. My pants soaked and stuck to my legs, I made my way as quickly as I could home, all the while holding my arm to my side in order not to disturb it. I assumed from my experience from being an army doctor that I had just twisted my wrist, which was an accurate prediction.

I finally came to the front door of 221B Baker Street. The lights on the restaurant next door gleam brightly in the night. I open the door, and I feel the wonderful warmth on my entire body even when I take one step in. I can tell Mrs. Hudson had been cleaning recently, because she left a scrub brush on the table at the bottom of the stairs. I am starting to become like Sherlock, because I begin to observe things more closely like he does normally now. I refuse to take my coat off until I get upstairs, just so I can warm up fully before I take off a layer.

Before I completely reach the top of the stairs, I can see Sherlock sitting in his favorite black chair. I try to look normal so he won't think anything is suspicious, but it is too late because he knew I was coming upstairs. I decide it's pointless in moving my arm, and even if I do, I will receive that sharp pain and will cause a scene. But Sherlock knows me, and he can tell from the expression on my face that something is wrong. But he doesn't address it right away.

"You know, I was beginning to worry." He looks down at his phone and just stares at it. It either means he's thinking, or he's looking at something he likes. I say nothing, just wonder and think about what he has just said to me. He doesn't move for at least ten seconds, then his eyebrows lower in confusion and he slowly raises his head. He does his usual and looks at me up and down.

"Something is wrong; I can see it in your face." I sigh and try to swallow the lump in the back of my throat. Words won't come to me now, so I simply nod my head instead. I don't know how, but Sherlock manages to stay calm and rises out of the chair. He takes four strides, and I look up to find him face to face with me.

"That it?" He looks towards my awkwardly bent arm.

I finally manage to get some words out of the back of my brain. "Yes. Slipped on some ice. From the looks and feels of it, I think it might be sprained."

Sherlock doesn't ask, but just reaches for my arm and gently takes it in his hand. "John, you're hand is freezing." He says no more and leads me over to the chair across from his. I feel the pillows on my back as I collapse and sink into the chair. Sherlock adds more wood to the ever-dying fire, which I didn't even notice was there. The flames begin to rise and I can already feel my skin getting warmer. I rest my sprained wrist on my leg and the other on the arm of the chair. I just stare into the flames and hear Sherlock rummaging through things in the kitchen. When he returns, he has a warm towel, a bandage, and a glass of water.

I cringe slightly when he wraps the bandage around my arm, but it is all soon over. He keeps pausing occasionally to look up and see how I'm doing. "There," he says. "Now, just stay still for a bit longer." I look at him and he gives me a small smile. He crouches down next to my chair. He picks up the warm towel and begins to rub it over my face. He rubs smoothly over my cheeks and I already feel much better. He moves it over my forehead and then begins to get the snow out of my hair. My hair sticks to my head and it feels cold on top, but Sherlock warms up my head with the towel.

"Better?" I look into his eyes, smile and nod.

"Thank you," I say. "It's the littlest things that can cheer you up so much." Sherlock gets off his knees and fixes the wrinkles in his shirt. He offers me his hand and helps me get out of the chair. He picks up the glass of water and tells me to get ready to sleep. After all, it is midnight and I had not slept very well the previous night, and I would not be having another nightmare tonight.

I change into my pajamas and get into my warm, cozy bed. I lie on my back, since I'll have to mostly now because of my wrist. I check any last messages on my phone, turn it off and place it on the bedside table. After several minutes, I hear a soft knock on the door and tell Sherlock to come in. He comes into the room and puts the glass of water on the table. I mutter my thanks to him and he smiles. He turns to leave the room, but then stops himself and looks back at me.

"You alright? You don't need anything else?" He pauses and then continues after a couple seconds. " No nightmares tonight ok?" He stutters slightly, but I find it cute.

"I'm fine now. At least, I am now, since I'm here at home with you." Sherlock blushes and bows his head to try and hide it. Before he leaves the room, he places his hand again on my forehead to check that I am finally warm. He walks towards the door, satisfied, and stops in the doorway. He takes a deep breath and lets out a long sigh. Then he turns his head and smiles for the last time that night.

"Goodnight John. Sleep well." He flicks the switch to my room, and the light from outside the door gets smaller and smaller as he closes the door. It closes with a _click_, and I am completely surrounded by darkness. I lie there in the darkness for a while, just thinking to myself; and realizing how much Sherlock really cares for me. I rolled over onto my right shoulder, and just let sleep close in on me as I sunk into the mattress.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The sunlight was blazing on my snow-white rug when I wake up the next morning. I sit up and sink back on my pillows, and the clock on my bedside table reads 8:07. I stretch out my back and let out a long yawn. I just sit there, not wanting to move, but knowing I have to get up eventually. Something catches my eye, and I turn my head slightly to see a wooden chair sitting beside my bed. Sherlock must have watched over me all night.

I finally move my muscles in my legs and force myself out of bed. I decide to check on my arm and go into the bathroom to get better lighting. My right side right under my ribs is sore, probably from sleeping on it all night.

My face looks tired when I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Carefully, I unwrap the bandage protecting my wrist. The sight of it makes me regret taking it off. The wrist itself has definitely twisted, and right on the corner of my bone a black, purple and green bruise is forming. I can manage to move my upper arm without pain, but anything below gives me a hurtful feeling. Not wanting to look at it for a second longer, I wrap the bandage back around the wrist and leave half my hand out to have air. Then, to wake myself up a little, I splash some hot water on my forehead, chin and cheeks. I know this won't do much good, because I am still tired.

I head back through my room and open the door. A faint smell of cinnamon buns can be smelt from halfway down the hall. Mrs. Hudson has yet again been cooking. The scent becomes stronger when I walk down the hall. When I turn into the living room, Sherlock is sitting in his chair, and he has obviously been searching for something because objects are everywhere. He's got his elbows on his knees and his head is looking down into his lap. He does his weird thing where he messes up his hair with his hands, then he suddenly realizes I am standing there and he looks up.

"Oh! Morning John!" He says rather quickly. He takes in a deep breath and then resumes talking, but slower this time. "Did you sleep alright?"

"I suppose. No nightmares." I give him a smile and turn towards the kitchen. "You know, thanks for the care last night," I suddenly say, and turn to face him again. "You didn't have too…"

"John, you don't mean that." He rises from his seat and stands in front of me. "When one's friend is injured, he never leaves the hurt one's side." He spreads the biggest smile I have ever seen him express across his face, and I can't help but to smile back. He then turns rather quickly and returns to looking for whatever it is he's looking for. I chuckle slightly to myself and turn into the kitchen.

As usual, there are dozens of test tubes and beakers crammed onto the table, so it is impossible to prepare anything on it. This morning, I have made the decision to make tea rather than coffee to wake me up. I begin to boil water on the stove and I hear a shout come from Sherlock.

"John! Where's the evidence we collected from the case yesterday?" He flies around the corner and has a petrified look about his face.

"Sherlock, calm down. Remember? I went to give them to Lestrade yesterday. I think you were busy off insulting Anderson again. You really need to watch what you say sometimes."

"Oh, who says I can't have a little bit of fun once in a while? I enjoy it; it's what I do."

"Sherlock, just don't be too harsh with the insults, ok? I don't want you getting into any more trouble than you've already been in." I give him my look; the look which tells him _Sherlock, you need to do what I say. _He gives up eventually and looks me in the eyes.

"Oh, alright you win this time John." He disappears around the corner again and walks over to one of the windows. He's clearly thinking, because he always stares out that window when he thinks.

The pot on the stove screams at me and tells me the water is ready. I pour some water into my favorite coffee mug, and rest the tea bag inside of it. I let it sit on the kitchen counter for several minutes before taking out the bag and mixing the liquid with a spoon. I hold the cup in my right hand and feel the heat in between my fingers. Instead of sitting in my chair, I cross the living room and sit on the couch, right under the yellow smiley face Sherlock painted on the wall and shot once with a gun. I came upstairs to find him shooting the smiley face and he claimed he was _bored._ I never let him use a gun in the house since then.

I sit back, relax, and put my feet up on the coffee table. "So, what's say with the case? Anything new I should know?"

Sherlock seems puzzled, then his mind comes back to him. "Oh," he says, "well, there isn't much you need to know. Basically, that murder that happened a couple weeks ago, I found the murderer. Mrs. Williams was found dead, and it turns out it was her eighteen year old son who killed her."

"Hmm." I stop and think for a minute. Then, because of my curiosity, I ask him the question. "How did you know it was him?"

"Didn't you see his jeans? There was blood on them, and he tried to wash them but the blood wouldn't come off. His shirt collar was up, not flat, which clearly states he was trying to hide something. He never answered my questions fully and he completely blurted out in front of me that he visited his mom on the day she was killed. That was his mistake." I stare at him. He's being brilliant, as always.

"We need to clean." This was a random outburst said several moments later. It was true, however. Books lay scattered all over the floor and shelves, papers were piled on top of my laptop, and the skull on top of the fireplace was lying on its' side. I take the last sip of my tea and scan the room with my eyes.

"I'll help if you want me to. But I am going to go out later. I need to run a few errands." I get up from the couch and stretch out my back.

"Oh no, you're not going anywhere. You are staying right here for a least a week, until your arm semi heals." I cannot reject this, because I know it's true and if I go out again, I might just slip again and cause more injuries.

"You can't get hurt anymore that you already are John. I need you."

"For what Sherlock?"

"Everything. Never doubt yourself John. Like I say, I would be lost without my blogger." He rummages through the pile of papers on top of the desk. "Ugh," he says, and throws an old newspaper towards me. I reach out to grab it, but I drop it because I can't catch with one hand. It lands on the floor beside my bare feet and I see why Sherlock is almost disgusted. He hates those hat photographs, and I'm not really sure why because they don't turn out too bad. _Hatman and Robin _is not a good title for the two of us in my opinion. I never tell Sherlock it bothers me that I never get any credit for solving crimes, because he'll probably make a big fuss out of it. I just try my best to do the most I can to help Sherlock solve his crimes.

I stare at the photograph in my hands. It would be funny if I put together a collage of all his hat photographs and gave it to him for Christmas, but I'm afraid he won't like it. I'm not going to risk it. But oh man; his long face, serious eyes, cheekbones, they just…

"Would you like help?" I ask Sherlock this question because he seems annoyed that there is so much stuff and the cleaning would get done faster with two versus one.

"Thank you John. That would be most helpful." He's looking right into my eyes, a slight smile across his face. He doesn't move for several moments, nor do I. Then, strangely, he squints his eyes a tiny bit and tilts his head. _Oh no, _I think. _He's observing something about me. _He breaks eye contact and shakes his head. He lifts his hands, as if they were feathers, and runs them through his hair. His fingers begin to move faster and he completely messes up his curly hair. I shake my head and walk over towards where he's standing.

"Stop doing that," I say. "You mess up your hair enough already, and it doesn't need to be any messier." I lift my hand up, not as gracefully as his, and move a little strand of hair out of his face. I also try and flatten it on top, but all the while keep it curly.

"There," I say. I shake my head again and laugh slightly to myself, looking down at the floor. My feet lead me into the kitchen and I wash my coffee mug. The water feels lovingly warm on my hand and the soap tickles in between my fingers. I wipe my hands off on the rough towel by the sink and turn back to face the living room. Sherlock is standing there, staring right at me, and I raise my eyebrows so it seems like I'm asking _Yes? _Sherlock is silent, and casually turns away to cough with his back towards me. I smile and think of how much of a brilliant person he is as I walk down the hall. And as I close the door to my room to get dressed, I hear Sherlock down the hall say, "My skull!" and the thump sound; I assume he has noticed it and placed it perfectly on top of the fireplace.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

After I changed into my jeans and my black and white striped long-sleeved shirt, brush my teeth, and try to flatten my hair a bit, I go back out in the living room to help Sherlock. When I enter the room, he hasn't made much progress. In fact, instead of cleaning, he's sitting in his chair looking at old case files.

"When are those from?" I ask politely. "Cause they certainly don't look like cases I solved with you."

"No," Sherlock says. "These are from before you became my…partner, I guess. Oh look, the case with the Hound of Baskerville. You remember that John?"

"The one where you locked me in the science lab with the so called Hound? How could I ever forget that one Sherlock?" Sherlock tilts his head back to see me and laughs at my words.

"Yes John. I'm still sorry I did that to you. I'm not sure why, considering that was several years ago."

"And you know what I say Sherlock? It's ok. Well, at least now it is. The only time it wasn't ok was when I was actually in the lab." I start to walk across the room towards the fireplace. "But that's long in our past. Only things that happen now truly matter. Our past makes up a story; the present is the main part of it, and the future depends on the present to make a happy ending."

"John, I envy you so much. Your mind is so placid, calm, straight-foreward-"

"Oh, not again," I say, because I've already heard this quote before, and it didn't turn out too well in the end.

"And," Sherlock cuts me off, "positive." I stop in my tracks. I pivot on the heels of my feet to face him. "I'm serious," he says. "You, John, are the most positive person I know." My mind goes blank for quite a long time I recon, and I realize after a while my mouth is open. Sherlock probably thinks I'm staring at him, which is partially correct. I close my mouth and turn away, feeling rather stupid about myself, and begin to go through more piles of papers on the desk.

"Haha, look John!" Sherlock pulls the case file from the top of his stack and hands it to me. "A Study in Pink, our first case together." I look at all the things he's kept from it. The pink phone, a London taxi cab driver tag, two of the pills.

"Why do you still have two of these pills? What if someone was an idiot, found this file if it was lost, and out of curiosity, took one of them?"

"No one would do that John. I mean, I know pills don't go bad, but why not keep them? They were an important part of the case, so why would I get rid of them?" I shrug my shoulders and continue going through the mess. In the corner, right where the two bookshelves meet, I see my cane that I never really needed. I pick it up, and the silver metal feels extremely cold against my hand. _How did I used to use this thing?_ I know it has been at least two years since I had a "limp." I still never found out what possessed me to decide to have a limp in the first place, since it was my shoulder and not my leg that was shot.

I take my cane, and standing two footsteps from Sherlock's chair, I throw it onto the chair opposite his. It hits the pillow and lands with the top part resting on the arm and the other half lying on the large part of the chair.

"Ah, I see you found your cane you used to use all the time." Sherlock throws the pile of case files onto my chair and gets up from his chair to resume cleaning. He pulls out the London A-Z book used in the blind banker case. He also pulls out an empty spray can bottle, which was once filled with Michigan paint. Instead of going through the pile with him, I decide to dust the bookshelves and straighten the books on them.

I find it extremely difficult to straighten all the books with one hand, and when Sherlock notices me struggling, he comes over and asks if I would like help. I stand and think for a minute, but Sherlock soon cuts me off with an idea.

"Here," he says. "We'll switch. You go through the papers, since it only requires one hand, and I'll do the bookshelves. Sound good?"

"Yeah, that'll work much better." I stare at the stack of papers that are staring me right in the face. At least I'll start now, so it'll be done sooner.

I find a whole bunch of randomness in the pile. At least twenty case files from crimes Sherlock and I solved together, one of the envelopes from when James Moriarty left us clues from the Reichenbach Fall, a test tube, multiple petri dishes, a phone book, an old notebook of mine, and…

"Sherlock, I found your laptop. Don't know how you lost it a few weeks ago, but here it is. Helps if you would clean this place once in a while." I pick up his laptop, carry it across the room and set it down on Sherlock's chair.

"Is that where it went?" Sherlock sounds confused. "I don't remember leaving it there…"

"You probably forgot because you always have quite a bit of other things on your mind."

I takes us at least two hours to complete the cleaning process, and that was without stopping to have a light snack. "You know Sherlock," I say, sitting down in my chair after all the hard work. "This place is not ready for the holidays yet. I know we have boxes of decorations somewhere…"

"They'd be downstairs. You'd have to ask Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock puts his fingertips together, thinking for a moment, then I jump at least three feet when he suddenly yells, "Mrs. Hudson!"

I hear the _click click click _of her shoes as she comes running up the stairs. Her figure appears in the doorway, but I do not turn to face her.

"Dear Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock says, in a quiet and calm voice. "Would you be se ever kind as to tell us where the Christmas decorations are? No need to get them yourself, we will bring them upstairs."

"Why yes Sherlock, they're down in the basement. I'll go get the key that you need." She turns in her high heels and begins to walk back downstairs.

"Great! Thank you very much!" says Sherlock, springing up violently from his comfy chair. I also rise from my chair and go to grab a pair of shoes to wear in the basement. Then, I rush downstairs after Sherlock and find boxes of Christmas decorations that needed hauling upstairs.

"Don't worry John, I can bring all of them up."

"I think not Sherlock. I can manage to carry boxes, no worries."

Sherlock turns to me and smiles at my positive thought. "Well then," he says, as the smile grows on his face. "Let's have some fun and decorate, shall we?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

It may seem like there is a lot in the boxes, but it really is just different colored lights and some paper snowflakes. There is also a couple of magnets to put on the refrigerator, several boxes of ornaments for the tree, and I find Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson's stockings. All these years Sherlock and I have lived together, we never got a stocking for me. I look to tell Sherlock, but strangely enough he is half buried in a box that comes up to his waist.

"What the hell are you doing?" He's head first in the box and seems to be looking for something important. I walk over to where his legs are sticking out and look down into the box. There's nothing in it as I can see except for a bunch of packing peanuts.

"Sherlock?" I am trying to peer closer, so I can get a glimpse of his face, deep down within the box.

"Don't say it John…" I hear his muffled voice come from under the packing peanuts. "Because yes, there is something in here."

"From the looks of it, no there isn't Sher-" But I am stopped because the box is beginning to tip backwards from the weight of his legs, and I dive down to the floor and try to use my good arm to slowly lower it to the floor. "Wouldn't that have been the better idea Sherlock? To lie it down before digging?" Sherlock wriggles out and gives me a slightly annoyed face. I give him the _Well it's true _look right back at him. However, he suddenly gets excited and dives back into the box yelling, "I found it!"

Sherlock returns from his search with a red object. It's practically rolled up in a ball, until he unfolds it and hands it to me. Clearly he bought this a long time ago and forgot about it till now, because he's just handed me a stocking that has my name on it. It's about the same size as his, slightly smaller, and it has a pattern of rainbow lights all over it.

"When, may I ask, did you buy this?" I shake it a little in my hand and look down at him. He's on his knees, sitting on the heels of his feet, and packing peanuts are everywhere in his messy, brown hair.

"About a year ago, judging by the wrinkles, but I never gave it to you, because I forgot." He bends his arms and puts his hands on his thighs. "You find anything interesting?"

"Not particularly. Just a bunch of lights, ornaments, and the other stockings," I say. "Is that all you've found so far?"

"Pretty much. But I lugged most of these boxes up here, mind you." Sherlock reaches down into the nearest box and pulls out a bunch of lights. He wraps them all around his body, like he's a little kid.

"Well," I say, "You look very festive. Having fun, are we?" Sherlock brings the lights in closer to him and shows me a big smile.

"You never really understand John, how much I love Christmas. After all, it is my favorite holiday." He walks around the living room a bit, then stops in front of the mirror and examines his reflection. A puzzled look crosses his face and he picks the packing peanuts from his hair. While doing so, he says to me, "John, I'm going out later to find us a Christmas tree. Would you like to come, or stay here and rest?"

"I think rest would be best for me, but go now and I'll decorate while you're gone. I'll help with decorating the tree when you get one. But, send me a picture of each tree so I can see which ones I like the best. We need a perfect tree for the holidays."

"Of course. I'll be back probably within an hour. Don't worry about me having to bring it upstairs. I can do it. You just decorate so everything looks pretty." He runs over to the desk chair and slips on his coat. And, for the finishing touches, he wraps his favorite scarf around his neck.

"Take gloves," I say to him. "You don't want frozen fingers or a sprained wrist like me." Sherlock nods towards me in thanks, and takes his gloves out from his coat pocket. Before he is able to run out the door, we find Mrs. Hudson standing in the door frame. She is holding a black suitcase and sees both the confused looks on our faces.

"I will be visiting family this Christmas, and I forgot to tell you earlier. I'm heading out right now, so I wanted to wish you both a Merry Christmas!"

"And you have a spectacular one yourself!" Sherlock bends down to hug her, and then he reaches around her face to give her a kiss on the cheek. "Merry Christmas Mrs. Hudson. Have a safe trip!" And before she can say thanks, he's bolted downstairs and out the front door. Mrs. Hudson laughs and walks over towards me.

"Merry Christmas John." I reply almost exactly the same way Sherlock did, but calmer, and I also give her a hug. "You two have a great time together!"

"We will! Thanks!" And then I find her walking towards the door, hear the _click click click _of her shoes, and the _slam! _of the front door. I am now all alone, but I have fun decorating 221B and I open my laptop to listen to Christmas music.

Sherlock's first Christmas tree text comes not even fifteen minutes after he left. From the looks of it, the tree would not even reach up halfway towards the ceiling, and there is a slight hole in the center. I send him a text back. _Maybe…keep looking. _I continue putting lights all around the window, until it makes a perfect border on the window frame. I plug in the cord to see if they work, and I get a glow from almost every light on the cord. A few have burned out, but I don't try to replace them because I have to reach up to take them down, and I'm too short and can barely reach. I am amazed how I even got them up there.

The next text comes when I am hanging the stocking on the chimney. My phone vibrates and I pick it up. The message with it says _This one? _This tree I can tell almost immediately that it is crooked, and it would probably fall over the minute we put it up. _It's crooked. I don't want a tree falling over and breaking all the ornaments. Try…_But before I can finish and send the text to him, he sends me another message. _This one looks perfect! _is what the message reads. I open the picture and see a big, fat and fluffy Christmas tree; the perfect one for 221B.

I think to myself, _this is going to be the best Christmas ever _as I send Sherlock a new text back. I express my happiness towards him the exact way he did. _That's the one. Bring it on home, cause this is going to be one fantastic Christmas! _


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

I am starting to put fake snow on top of the fireplace when I hear the faint opening of a door downstairs. I try and flatten it down, but yet keep it fluffy looking at the same time. I can hear a scraping noise coming from the stairs, and I can tell Sherlock is having trouble getting the tree upstairs. I leave the living room and go to help him, even though he told me not to.

"Need a little help?" I peek my head around the left side of the tree and see the top of Sherlock's head sticking out from the back. He can peer his head just enough over the widest part of the tree to get a look at me.

"That would be great. Thanks John." I grab the front part of the tree with my only available arm, then I say, "One, two, three, lift!" and the tree hovers two inches over the ground. "Careful coming up the stairs," I add as we start to ascend. One stable step at a time, we climb to the top until the tree is resting on the living room floor.

Sherlock takes one look around the unfinished apartment and a pleased look comes across his face. "You certainly did a lot while I was gone. I had to snag this tree quickly before a little girl saw it. Luckily, her father called her to another one, so I claimed this one before anyone else could! Had quite a time lugging it home, that's for sure!" He brushes some pine needles off his shoulders.

We are silent for a good long while, then I decide to break it. "Would you like some hot chocolate?"

"That would be great. Thank you John. I am in need of a refreshment." I nod and go into the kitchen. I open the cupboard and pull out Sherlock' coffee mug and mine as well. I heat up some water in a pot and pull out the mix needed for the drinks.

"I'll be right back Sherlock. If you need anything, just holler." I walk down the hall to my room and decide to get my pajamas on. First, I put on my navy blue pajamas and then my fuzzy slippers. I find my white and grey striped bathrobe on the bedpost and put that on to keep warm.

When I come back into the kitchen, I see Sherlock has managed to make the tree stand up and has turned on all the lights around the windows. The tree is a little taller than he is, and everything needed to put on it is on the floor by his feet. He's scratching his head, and then he bends down to take out the lights so he can start decorating.

I finish mixing the hot chocolate and start to bring it out to Sherlock. I stop in my tracks though and realize I have forgotten one ingredient.

"I am assuming you would like whipped cream with your drink, yes?" I look over at him. He has his back towards me, but quickly turns at the mention of whipped cream.

"Of course John. What a silly question." So, I take the whipped cream out of the fridge and spray out some over both drinks. Just for kicks, I also add a couple marshmallows to each too. I pick up the two mugs and bring them into the living room. I place both on the coffee table, and go help Sherlock while my drink cools off a bit. Sherlock's started to wrap the lights around the tree, but I stop him because the lights are too close to the edge of the branches.

"Here," I tell him. "Why don't you take a break and rest while I do this? Go get your pajamas on." Sherlock begins to refuse, but he won't go there with me and I force him to make himself at home for once.

It takes several hours before the tree is finished, by which the clock reads ten. It was a pretty good day, seeing as I just decorated, cleaned, and helped Sherlock with the tree all day. Before going off to bed, we have a small discussion about our last case until after the holidays. Sherlock and I put together another case file and I write up another story for my blog. Sherlock reads it, and for once, is satisfied with the outcome.

And before completely going to bed, I walked down the hall and pulled out the last remaining pine needle in his hair.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Sherlock and I literally spend the next two weeks before Christmas doing nothing. I still haven't found the perfect present for him yet, and I tell him every other day that I am going out. Sherlock thinks I have found myself another girlfriend, but I haven't told him that I got over girlfriends a long time ago.

Sherlock also says nothing to me. He spends most of his time locked in his room, and whenever I knock and ask to come in, he simply refuses and won't let me in. The only time he comes out is if he wants a bite to eat, but he rarely eats anyway.

The only exciting thing that happened in those two weeks was that Molly, Lestrade, and even Donovan and Anderson came to visit three days before Christmas. It was like a last reunion before we all split off and didn't come back till after the holidays.

Even without any mayhem in 221B, Sherlock and I saw Christmas day come faster than we expected. I felt bad because I still didn't find him a gift. I thought of telling him that I did get him something, it just hadn't come yet, and I would go out the next day and find him a new scarf or something. But I never got the courage up that day to tell him, because if I did it would be lying anyway.

We spent our day together listening to music, singing, and drinking lots of hot chocolate. The taste of the rich chocolate melted in our mouths, and the smoothness of the whipped cream added the perfect touch to the drink.

A light snow started to fall around seven in the afternoon, and Sherlock picked up his violin to play me a tune. He played the classic We Wish You A Merry Christmas because it was the only holiday he knew how to play. Mrs. Hudson had left us a large basket of cookies downstairs before she left, so we found them a couple days later. Molly left us a couple boxes of chocolates, and Lestrade weirdly bought us matching sweaters. Of course, Donovan and Anderson had brought nothing for us a couple days prior, simply because both can't seem to stand Sherlock and I sometimes.

I dipped a chocolate chip cookie into my hot chocolate and let the taste sink into my mouth. Sherlock lifts his head up from his drink and he has a drink mustache on his face. I laugh, and point to where it is on his face, then he seems slightly embarrassed as he wipes it from his face.

Sherlock takes one last sip from his mug. He says "Ah," in appreciation, and takes my cup from me as he walks towards the kitchen. I hear the water running from the faucet, and not long after Sherlock flops back down into his chair.

"Don't you think," he says, eyeing the tree, "That we should open our gifts to each other now?" He stands up and goes to kneel down by the tree. I slowly rise from my chair and give a long, low sigh. Sherlock stands up and sees the upset expression on my face.

"What's wrong John?" His voice is so calm and peaceful. It sends a warm feeling to my heart.

I finally get up the courage to say it to him, right to his face. The lights on the tree make his cheekbones stand out even more on his face. "Sherlock, I didn't get you a present this year. I couldn't find one that was special enough for you."

Sherlock steps real close to me. He grabs me around the waist and pulls me in close to him. "It doesn't matter John. You're my Christmas present." I lift my head up. His big eyes are looking directly into mine, and I have never been so touched in all my life.

"I only go you one present this year John." Sherlock goes to stand in front of the Christmas tree, and the lights sparkle behind him. He bends down to grab a gift hidden under the tree. Then, he takes three steps towards me and pulls out a neatly wrapped package from behind his back. I take it in both my hands and tear the wrapping paper from the box. The tag reads _To: John, From: Your best friend._ I remove the lid from the box and stare in wonder at the object inside. There are actually two things inside. One is a present Sherlock has made himself for me. It is a scrapbook, containing all the cases and crimes we have solved together.

"And for each mystery we solve, it's your job to add to the scrapbook; to keep it going." My smile runs wide across my face, and I look down into the box to see what else is in it. The second thing is something I would never expect to see. I take the soft fabric in my hand, and take out an identical scarf that Sherlock has and always wears. My mouth hangs open a little, and as I look up at him, a great smile spreads over my face. I place the box on the floor at my feet and wrap the scarf around my neck, feeling the softness of it and rubbing it gently over my face.

"Sherlock, there is nothing else I would ask for in the world than to be with you for the rest of my life. That's the greatest gift today, and any other day of my life. The fact that you are here with me is the most important thing in the world to me."

"I imagined my love life would be a mystery to you, but I have finally found the one person I love. He's been here with me all along, and I have never fully seen him until just a few weeks ago. And I'm truly upset I never really knew him till now." He grabs my arm and directs me over to the couch and sits down with me.

Stupid question, and I know the answer, but I ask anyway. "Who's he?" I ask him, knowing the answer, and smile because I can't help myself.

"John, I'm sure you already know that." I tell him so, but he goes with the asked question and answers it with one simple word. "You."

And then, the most unexpected thing happened. Sherlock reaches over and gets closer and closer. Our foreheads come together, and then, not being able to wait any longer, Sherlock leans closer and kisses me. And I forget everything else in the surrounding world, and I kiss him back, not caring. I may have lied about myself earlier, but now, I am sure. I do have feelings for Sherlock, and very strong ones at that.

He breaks away after several moments, and his face is lit up with love and happiness. "Do you love me John?" He probably knows the answer, but I go with it and answer it anyway.

"Always Sherlock. I'll love you till the end of my days." And next I feel the softness of his hand clasp around my own, and we simply sit on the couch for minutes on end. After ten minutes, I can't stand it any longer, and I move closer to him and rest my head on his shoulder. I would do anything to sit here forever, but I know I must move eventually, so I sit while I can and let the extraordinary feeling sink into myself.

And the last thing I remember seeing before I drifted off to sleep was the sparkle of the Christmas lights in Sherlock's eyes. "Merry Christmas John." His voice is soft as he says this and grips my hand tighter.

"Merry Christmas Sherlock." I kissed him one more time on the cheek before resting my head on his shoulder again. And I sank into sleep, never wanting to wake up from the most amazing dream I had ever had; but it wasn't a dream at all, because it was much, much more than that.


End file.
